The Lorecave, a beautiful monument dedicated to the ancestors of every wick in Anhau and to the city itself. Hundreds of winding bends and tunnels lead to thousands of murals dedicated to almost every family in the city. If one wanted to trace their ancestry back to the beginning of the city they could, no problem.

Curious outsiders had finally decided to come and learn what the lorecave was and what it held. Glynn had met an inquisitive girl with red and blue hair, the day before. She was around the same age Glynn was if not a year older, she identified herself as Annette Publian. She was in awe of Glynn, she wondered how he had memorized almost all the walls in the cave in only a few short years. Glynn was flattered, but it was common for Loremasters-in-training.

Now a day after, Glynn waited for more outsiders to make their way to the cave. Another outsider wick must have wanted to know about the history, they needed to.

Dabney loved a good Sweethop – a shish kabob of roasted oranges, vegetables, and frog legs. It was easy on the teeth, and the flavor was to kill for. And here in Anhau, one could get a Sweethop for a song…literally.

Thankfully, Dabney didn’t have to sing for his supper – he would’ve made a few ears bleed had that been the case. No, this time around, he traded an old short story about sea ghosts and merchant’s treasure that he’d learned as a boy; precious few could remember that tale these days. But it was enough – the sellers had been thoroughly intrigued (if not thrillingly spooked) by the tale, and had readily given the old wick his food.

Gnawing occasionally on his lunch, the codger had been exploring the width and breadth of Ethia, taking his time and enjoying a brief lapse of the habitual rain of the season. Anhau in general was such a contrast to Vienda, and especially to Old Rose (his old stomping grounds). The people here were so gentle and polite; Dabney had caught himself on more than one occasion feeling a bit embarrassed about some of his “normal” habits practiced in front of these people. And that wasn’t normal for him at all.

He now found himself standing on a path leading further into the Ethia valley; some distance away, there stood a dark-mouthed cave with a trickle of wicks heading in and out of the opening. Curious, Dabney began his descent. Another tavern, perhaps? No, none of the people exiting looked disoriented or loopy. They all had peaceful, contented expressions on their faces, and they walked calmly with no sense of hurry or urgency. Even other spoke wicks (judging by their attire and hair styles) who emerged shared this unfamiliar sense of self-learning.

Dabney smacked at his gums thoughtfully. Then he tilted his head at an angle to get a look at Flut-Flut. The whice had hardly moved from his sleeping position on his master's shoulder, yet now the little eyes opened to gaze into Dabney's own, and the colorful head cocked at the same angle. Why not?, the little bird seemed to say.

With a grunt-accompanied nod, the old man turned and stumped towards the cave entrance, the Sweethop momentarily forgotten in one knobby-knuckled hand.

An outsider approached, there was no denying it. He might have been old, might have been wise, but he was obviously an outsider; the hair said it all. The watery mohawk approached the with a colorful whice on his shoulder. The man was a stereotypical outsider his father told him to avoid; Glynn didn’t really want to listen to his father, especially if this outsider had tales of the outside world.

Glynn brushed the dust off his robes, fixed his hair, and even tried to stand up straight; something that was bit of a physical impossibility. His mahogany cane shimmered on one side from the outside light, a miniature light house of sorts. It led people to him.

He approached the old stranger, eyeing the whice on his shoulder. He was jealous of the beast, being able to fly and experience freedoms wicks couldn’t even comprehend. He calmly addressed the outsider with composure one wouldn’t see Glynn with outside of the cave.

“Hello, outsider. What brings you to the Lorecave today?” A smiled formed on Glynn’s face. “Here to trace some history?”

Dabney had almost marched past Glynn before realizing the boy was probably talking to him. “Whuzzat, kov?” the oldster cawed, halting and spinning sharply for one his age. Thrown off balance, Flut-Flut fluttered his wings crazily, his dinky claws gripping Dabney’s shoulder as best as they were able.

“Sorry, bucko, I didn’t think youse was a-talkin’ ta me!” He eyed the lad with one squinty eye. A strong-looking boy – polite, too; seemed to lean on the cane he gripped in one hand. Dabney blinked, crinkling his nose as he did, and glanced back at the opening to the caves. “So them’s the Lorecaves, eh? Heard about ‘em often – thought it was all rot when I was a boch. Di’n’t have much of a fambly meself, so I thought, why bother?” He snuffed loudly. “Well, since I’m ‘ere, might as well have a peep. Don’t know if I’ll find anythin’ – won’t be surprised if that ‘appens.”

He stared at Glynn again. “Youse a guide er somethin’? I could use a kov ta help me figger out if I got any roots ‘round these parts.”

Glynn’s face looked more confused than a Kensers. The man’s accent was hard, even for a wick to decipher. He had obviously had his share of bar fights, where he lost some teeth, or he just never learned to speak right; Glynn wanted to go with the former, seemed more adventurous. Glynn was adventurous as a child, and then the accident changed all of that. If it wasn’t for his disability and the love he had for his father, he would be out of the city very quickly.

Glynn glanced up at the hackney stranger. His eyes spoke of an eccentric past that fascinated Glynn. He wanted a future like this mans past, it must have been colorful and memorable. He knew that if his father suffered an untimely death, he would hitch the first cart out of the city. Sadly, somewhere down deep in the recesses of his mind, Glynn secretly wished death upon his father. It was a sick wish and Glynn would never acknowledge that he thought it.

The only word that Glynn could vaguely understand was “guide”, the man must have realized he was a loremaster-in-training. The robes were like a sign strapped to the person who wore them, if someone didn’t recognize that they were loremasters, they must have been incredibly dense.
“Ah yes, I am a guide of sorts.” Glynn bowed, he wanted to treat this stranger like one of the family. “I’m Glynn a loremaster in training. Like my forefathers, I will document the happenings of this great city and mark it on the walls of this cave.” A smirk had formed from Glynn’s lips. “So what brings you to the caves, stranger?” Glynn repeated himself, realizing that the man was probably deaf in one ear or something of that case.

Dabney recognized that look – he’d been getting it ever since he’d arrived in Anhau and started talking. The classic “What the clocks are you saying?” look. Oh well, time to slow it down again…

“Loremaster, huh? Keepin’ track o’ all the histories an’ so on, am I right?” He nodded in understanding. “A good, sound profession, kov. Better than what I ever did.” He snorted at that thought and rubbed his nose over his sleeve.

“Aye, thought I’d take a gander at these here caves an’ see if the ol’ Fleeke line’s been mentioned. We ent never done anythin’ worthwhile, I’m thinkin’, so it’ll pro’lly be a small line. Won’t hurt me none if there ent nothin’ there in the long run; us Fleekes are reg’lar spokes, we is, an’ hard ta keep track of.” He paused, and then stuck out his hand in a friendly gesture. “Dabney Fleeke’s me name – what’s yers?”

Dabney had also caught another familiar, longing look that had permeated the boy’s features. He’d had the very same when he was no older, long, long ago. It was obvious this boy had to keep it under wraps due to his current occupation, but there was definitely a wanderlust streak growing inside him – Dabney was sure of it.

“Since youse ‘round ‘ere trade for everythin’,” he went on, “how ‘bout we do our own bit of it? Ya take me through the caves an’ help me out there, an’ I’ll regale youse with some tales o’ me youth once we’re done here. I’m a reg’lar storyteller, an’ that’s been me currency while I’ve been here.” He gestured at the cave entrance and grinned. “Wot say youse?”

Glynn’s wide eyes responded to the hand out in front of them. His eyes sent a message to his brain and his brain sent a message to his hands. He shook Dabney’s hand with the hand opposite his cane. Glynn had become accustomed to using his left hand, he had been using his right hand since he was a child, but alas he needed it for his cane. He had almost become ambidextrous.

“I’m Glynn, sir, Glynn Todou. My family has been Loremasters since the foundation of the city.” A small smile had formed below Glynn’s nose. “It’s my duty to show you these caves; you don’t need to trade me nothing. But if you want to tell me the stories anyway, I would be more than honored. I myself am a bit of a storyteller, I read and collect the tales from before the foundation of the city and tell them to whoever wants to lend an ear. In fact, this recent Binze, I told a beautiful story to some children. It was about when we were fighting Bruanhald.” Glynn reminisced silently and quickly, that truly was a good Binze.

“He gestured towards the cave.” You ready then?

(( SFSP ))

“Har, a kov after me own heart,” Dabney replied, gripping Glynn’s hand firmly. “About the story tellin’, I mean. Ye’ll hafta tell me that tale o’ the fightin’ – sounds like a real romp. Then I can tell ya if yer any good or not.” He winked and nudged the boy, hoping in the same instant that Glynn would get his good-natured jest.



"Born so, kov - born so." He turned and sized up the cave entrance once again. "Lead the way, an' don't wait up if i fall behind. I'll get there sooner or later." He chuckled to himself.